


get and hold onto

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [56]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Eating breakfast in bed is hardly something David indulges in. Certainly not with someone else, though every time he has, it’s been with Jake beside him. It feels a little like playing house, as David understands the term. It feels a lot like Toronto did. Some liminal space that doesn’t quite feel real, that’ll disappear as soon as David reaches for it, as soon as he leaves. This time for Washington instead of New York, but that’s — nothing’s changed. It feels like a lot has changed.





	

Some of the players David knows don’t bother to set an alarm for their pre-game naps, confident that they’ll wake naturally. And they do, most of them, most of the time, but it just takes oversleeping once to potentially have disastrous consequences. In Juniors, Favreau was last on the bus more often than not, sometimes followed by their coach, looking sour, since he’d been the one begging for a key from reception because Favreau was somehow able to sleep through banging on the door. An Islander whose name David doesn’t recall once arrived only an hour before the game, claiming alarm failure, and found himself scratched from it, then the following three, before getting sent down to the AHL.

This is all to say that David is meticulous about setting his alarm before his naps, even if he wakes up naturally as often as not.

David was…distracted, this morning. That’s not a _good_ excuse, but it is an excuse, he supposes.

He wakes up warm. On the verge of overheated, actually, Jake pressed up against his back, arm heavy where it’s draped over his side. It’s the most comfortable he’s felt in a long time, and he’s halfway back to sleep before he thinks to check the time, grabbing for his phone on the bedside table and unable to suppress a grin when Jake makes a cranky noise.

“Fuck,” David says when he sees the time, sitting up. “Jake.”

“Sleep,” Jake mumbles.

“Jake, what time are we supposed to be at the Q?” David asks.

Jake opens his eyes, frowning, then immediately smiles at David. “Hi,” he says.

“What time?” David repeats.

“Two-thirty,” Jake says through a yawn.

“It’s almost two,” David says. “ _Fuck_.”

“We’re not late,” Jake says.

They’re not late _yet_ , but Jake has to go back to his room and get changed, and David really needs to take a shower. There’s time for that, if he’s quick, but — 

“Get up,” David says, then, “Jake.”

“Okay,” Jake says, finally getting up. He bends over to gather his clothes, and David’s — David doesn’t have time to be distracted. Especially if he’s planning on showering.

“Shit, I don’t have time to dry my hair,” David says. He can settle for another wet wash cloth, he supposes, though he has a feeling he’ll be thinking about it the whole time, what traces of Jake still stick to his skin.

“Just don’t get your hair wet,” Jake says, tugging his sweats on.

“Oh,” David says. “That’s — smart.”

“I can be smart,” Jake says. 

“I know,” David says. He looks at his pile of clothing sceptically, pulls his underwear on but doesn’t bother with the rest. “I’ll see you there?”

“Wait,” Jake says.

“We don’t have time—” David says.

“This will take like one sec,” Jake says, then pulls David in, mouth brushing against his. When he pulls back, David follows despite himself, tries to hold onto the moment. “Okay,” Jake says. “Now I’ll go.”

“Okay,” David says, suddenly reluctant about it.

It’s a very good thing their hotel is close to the Q. David ends up being three minutes late, which he’s internally cringing about, but his arrival time is middle of the pack and four minutes before Jake arrives.

They spend hours involved in signings and photo ops before they’re able to escape to the locker rooms. Everyone’s in their regular season jersey for Skills, the most mismatched teams imaginable, impossible to differentiate by sight. Crane’s on Team Hearst, and David makes sure to sit beside him on the bench, partly solidarity, partly the fact just sitting beside Jake would feel like too much right now.

The Skills Competition is what it always is, flashy and ridiculous. Crane’s excited to try out his rear view mirrors, puts his back to the players in the shootout and still saves more than he lets in, though perhaps that’s because some of the shot attempts are similarly foolish: a player trying to stickhandle two pucks, a watermelon that skids to a stop before it even reaches Crane, and which players on both teams appear to be eating afterwards.

When Crane returns to the bench, Boucher makes a spectacle of checking himself in the mirror, fixing his hair, and for some reason that gets the biggest laugh from the crowd yet.

David’s glad when it’s over. The game itself is meaningless, but at least David will be participating in it, at least it’ll involve practical skills rather than Quincy’s careful handiwork, such as with Crane’s mirrors, or general buffoonery, like Boucher. There are genuine skills shown: hardest shot, accuracy, speed, but for some reason they always fail to interest the crowd the way the shootout does.

The group once again heads to a bar after official activities wrap up. The same bar, actually, and David doesn’t know if Georgie’s insistence there are good places in Cleveland was untrue or Hearst just has a preference, but he doesn’t mind. It’s close to the Q and close to the hotel, and the service isn’t bad, which is all David really needs.

“Think I should try that mask out one of our games?” Crane asks, during the ride over.

“No,” David says. “Also I doubt it counts as a regulation mask.”

“True,” Crane says, frowning. “But, like. Against the Panthers or something, give them a fighting chance. League might take pity on them, let me wear it.”

“No,” David says flatly. “Not even the Panthers.”

“Spoilsport,” Crane says. “I’m not sitting with you. You’ll monitor my drinking or something.”

“You’re in net tomorrow,” David says. “You can’t get drunk.”

“Definitely not sitting with you,” Crane says, and true to his word, he lands up sitting with Boucher, whom David has zero interest in sitting with.

Jake’s — Jake’s obviously there, but just like at Skills, David’s worried if he sits next to Jake it’ll be — that no one could miss it. Jake seems to have somewhat of the same idea, or at least he gets that David has it, because he shoots David a grin soon after they get inside, when half the group is still milling around, then goes over to sit with Hearst and Davies. Maybe that’s just him doing his duty — assistant captain does have its responsibilities, even for something like this.

Petrov’s sitting at the bar, frowning at his phone again, and he wasn’t hard to talk to, last night, so David takes the stool next to his rather than risk an awkward discussion with a player he doesn’t know beyond name and stats, or, worse, end up stuck with Bradley. 

“Another recap?” David asks.

“No,” Petrov says. “Team chat.”

“Team chat?” David asks.

“Assholes are all showing me pictures of where they are,” Petrov says, tilting his phone so David can see a guy too small to make out — a Canadien, David presumes — on an indeterminate beach.

David doesn’t know about team chat, or whatever, if it’s even something the Capitals do, but he has received a few texts from Robbie consisting solely of pictures of him and Matthews doing standard beach things, drinking bright cocktails, tan and shirtless and grinning. Crane had received them too, David gathered during Skills, and was annoyed about it. David didn’t mind them. They looked like they were having fun, but Cleveland was fine. David wouldn’t prefer being anywhere else.

They do eventually end up back on the OHL. It’s not as in depth as Jake and Petrov’s argument, but David keeps well enough abreast of the best prospects, drafted or otherwise, to contribute to conversation, and he’s interested to hear Petrov’s take on the D-men, since David has a hard time judging defensive prospects’ potential.

“One sec,” Petrov says, interrupting himself, then picks up his phone, speaking curt, terse Russian, different than the rapidfire when Oleg and Kiro and Vladislav would get going, fast enough that David didn’t have a hope of _differentiating_ words, let alone understanding them. He tried, that first summer Kiro joined training, to pick up Russian, spent hundreds on software, but all it ended up being was an exercise in frustration, David forgetting things as soon as he learned them, and when he moved to Washington, the software didn’t come with him. 

Petrov’s like a clinic, though, each word fully enunciated, separate, and even as pitiful as David’s Russian is, he’s retained enough hockey-related words to get some of the gist. The conversation lasts far longer than a second, or even a minute, but David, searching for words he recognises, doesn’t mind.

“Your father?” David asks, when Petrov hangs up.

Petrov frowns. “You speak Russian?” he asks.

“Not really,” David says. “I know a few words.”

“Thinks I need his advice on the goalies,” Petrov says. “Like the game isn’t meaningless.”

“Right?” David says, but then. Vladimir Petrov is a member of the Hockey Hall of Fame, practically single-handedly won the Stanley Cup in 1993 for the Whalers. David was obviously too young to remember that, but Petrov remained a force until he retired, which David does remember. The game may be meaningless, but David isn’t just playing these goalies in meaningless games. “What was his advice?”

Petrov sighs. “Like you need the help,” he says, then when David frowns, “Fine, but only the goalies I don’t like.”

Apparently Petrov doesn’t like any of them. David appreciates that.

Jake comes over when Petrov’s sketching out Connors’ play. Connors is on Team Hearst, and David only plays him twice a season, but any information is useful information. 

“Shop talk again?” Jake asks.

“Goalie talk,” David says.

“Because of your dad?” Jake asks, and Petrov scowls at him.

“Why would you think it’s because of my father?” Petrov asks.

“Sorry, bro, didn’t mean to assume,” Jake says. “David, can we talk about that play for tomorrow?”

“Okay,” David says, then when Jake gets him to a relatively quiet spot, “I don’t remember talking about a play.”

“Yeah, that was a total lie,” Jake says. “You mind heading back? We should, you know, talk more.”

“Is that a euphemism?” David asks, quiet. No one seems to be in earshot, but it’d be foolish to say it above a murmur.

“No!” Jake says. “I don’t think so? Like, we still have stuff to figure out.”

“Okay,” David says. “Sure.”

“I’ve got a cab waiting,” Jake says.

“You were pretty sure I was going to agree,” David says.

“Was hoping,” Jake says. “I’m a hopeful kind of guy.”

They make it about two steps into David’s hotel room before clothes coming off. David doesn’t even know who started it, who reached for who, but by the time they hit the bed David’s down to his pants, Jake to his underwear.

“So, euphemism, then,” David says breathlessly as his back hits the mattress.

“I owe you a blowjob,” Jake says while undoing David’s belt, and David’s not even remotely interested in arguing. Or talking. Euphemisms are fine.

*

“I really meant to talk,” Jake groans, after a…mutual transaction, draping his arm over his eyes. “You don’t have to believe me, but I really did.”

“Can we talk in the morning?” David asks, because even with the long, unscheduled nap earlier, he’s tired.

“You mean — ” Jake says. “You want me to stick around?”

David — didn’t mean that, but Hearst has made it clear he won’t even be stepping foot in the room, and Jake’s roommate isn’t going to be surprised if Jake doesn’t show up. There aren’t really any proper curfews, no real rules beyond ‘show up when we ask you to show up, play when we need you to play’, and Jake won’t be the first or last player to only use his room to shower and change. Probably not the only player tonight. Depending on Jake’s roommate, maybe _no one_ will be sleeping there.

“I’ll head out,” Jake says, and David realises he didn’t actually answer Jake’s question.

“Yes,” David says. “I mean. Don’t. I’d like it if you stayed.”

“Yeah?” Jake asks, and when David nods, the smile he gets in return is — it’s a lot. It’s too much, but somehow not in a bad way.

David makes sure to set the alarm that night, though he once again wakes up before it goes off, once again wakes up bracketed by Jake’s body, Jake breathing soft puffs against the shell of his ear. He checks the time, just in case he somehow failed to set it, though he double-checked it before bed, but it’s twenty minutes before it’s set to go off. David could get up, but —

He wakes up again to a shrill ring, Jake reaching over him to grab his phone. “Snooze,” Jake mumbles, then tucks himself back against David’s body, falls back asleep in the space between one breath and the next, arm tight enough around David that he can’t easily wiggle free.

“Jake,” David says, then when Jake doesn’t respond, says it louder.

Jake grunts.

“Let go,” David says, and Jake grunts again but loosens his grip enough that David can get free, head to the bathroom. By the time he gets out of the shower, Jake’s upright, if still soft, sleepy looking.

David orders them breakfast while Jake showers, figures a talk — whatever Jake means by that — can only be helped by food and caffeine, especially since Jake admits to being useless before coffee.

Jake’s done before it arrives, looking reluctantly in the direction of his discarded suit, so David lends him his loosest undershirt, still too tight across his chest, a pair of sweats that end at his ankles.

“I look ridiculous,” Jake says with a laugh, once he’s gotten dressed. 

David doesn’t think so, but then, it’s — Jake’s wearing his clothes. He’s not really sure what word he’d use for what Jake looks like, but it’s not ridiculous. Distracting, maybe. 

David’s been distracted a lot lately.

They eat before talking by mutual, unspoken agreement. There’s a table, but only one chair, so they wind up sitting cross-legged on the bed, knees brushing. Jake devours everything on his plate and then looks longing at David’s. “Go ahead,” David says, and Jake mumbles a thank you through a mouthful of David’s bacon, which he wasn’t planning on eating anyway. 

Eating breakfast in bed is hardly something David indulges in. Certainly not with someone else, though every time he has, it’s been with Jake beside him. It feels a little like playing house, as David understands the term. 

It feels a lot like Toronto did. Some liminal space that doesn’t quite feel real, that’ll disappear as soon as David reaches for it, as soon as he leaves. This time for Washington instead of New York, but that’s — nothing’s changed. 

It feels like a lot has changed.

“You wanted to talk?” David asks, once Jake’s cleared David’s plate as well as his own. He’d forgotten that Jake eats more than him, but he wasn’t planning on finishing everything, so it worked out well enough.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Like. About us.”

“Didn’t we already?” David asks.

“I mean, we decided there _is_ an us,” Jake says. “Right? We did?”

“Yes,” David says.

“And like, labeled the us,” Jake says. “Just — confirming the boyfriend label.”

David colours, but nods.

“But there’s still the whole, like. How the us is going to work,” Jake says. 

“What do you mean?” David asks.

“I mean, like, of course it’s long distance during the season,” Jake says. “And it’s way too early to figure out off-season already, I mean, we don’t even know if the off-season starts April or June right now. Or, like. April for one of us, June for the other.”

David eyes him.

“Obviously it’s not going to be April for you guys,” Jake says. “Come on, you know you’re in the playoffs, I’m not jinxing you.”

“It’s only January,” David says.

“You guys are third in the _league_ , David,” Jake says. 

“It’s only January,” David repeats.

“Right,” Jake says. “So, like I said, way too early to figure that stuff out, but there’s. Other stuff.”

“Like?” David asks.

“Like if we’re telling people,” Jake says.

“Oh,” David says.

“Yeah,” Jake says.

“I don’t — ” David says. “I — ”

“Not like, the world, obviously,” Jake says. “Maybe…let’s break it down?”

“How?” David asks.

“Is it okay if I tell my family?” Jake asks.

David isn’t necessarily comfortable with the Lourdes family, but he is, at least, confident that they wouldn’t leak anything about Jake. David has no interest in telling his own family, but he knows it makes Jake uncomfortable when his family doesn’t know what’s going on with him. They seem close. Affectionate. And they were the first people Jake told — the only ones he told with David’s permission, some of the first people to know about David, period.

“Yeah,” David says. “That’s fine.”

“The Panthers?” Jake asks. “Like, seriously, feel free to tell me no, I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, just to figure out what’s okay with you and what isn’t.”

“I know,” David says. “I — only the guys who already knew about you and me before.” 

“Joe, Armand, Cody,” Jake says. “Just so you know who’ll know. Those three. And Volkov, I guess? I mean, if you want to tell him. It’d be you, not me, but. He’s a Panther.”

“Yeah,” David says. “If it’s okay that I tell him.”

“You can tell whoever you want, you don’t have to ask me for permission or anything,” Jake says, and when David frowns, poised to argue, “I have complete faith you wouldn’t tell anyone you don’t trust to keep their mouth shut,” which — David wouldn’t, so he supposes that makes sense. 

“Okay,” David says. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Jake says, then, “Oh shit.”

“What?” David asks.

“Do we tell Dave?” Jake asks.

“We probably have to,” David says. “If we don’t tell him he can’t do his job.”

“He’s going to kill me,” Jake groans. 

“Me too,” David says.

“Nope,” Jake says. “You he’ll be all ‘Okay, David, whatever makes you happy’, me he’ll be like ‘what the fuck Lourdes what have you done to my favourite client, you are a fucking menace.’”

David laughs. “No he won’t.”

“He absolutely will,” Jake says. “I’ll send you like, his exact words. If I’m still alive, I mean.”

“Okay,” David says, still laughing.

“Hey,” Jake says, rubbing his thumb over David’s knuckles, then brushing a kiss against David’s cheek when he turns his head.

“Hm?” David says.

“We got this,” Jake says. “Like. I can’t really guess what’s coming or whatever, but. It’s not going to be like last time. We got this.”

“I know,” David says.

“Yeah?” Jake asks.

“Yeah,” David says. “We got this.”

“You’re making a face right now,” Jake says.

“‘We got this’ isn’t proper grammar,” David says. “But.” 

“I love you,” Jake says.

“For commenting on your grammar?” David asks.

“Lourdes family tradition by now,” Jake says. “And Joe. And Parey, even though he’s French. And — basically everyone I love does.”

“Everyone who loves you,” David says.

“Yeah?” Jake says, and when David nods, leans in and presses his lips against David’s temple. “What’s the right way to say it?”

“We have this,” David says.

“You’re right,” Jake says. “We do.”


End file.
